“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”
“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.
“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady’s is!”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”
“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught cold.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.”
“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather think I had a damp napkin at dinnertime yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?”
“Very happy, sir,” replied Oliver. “And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me.”
“Good boy,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”
“He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; “a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”
“My name is Oliver, sir,” replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment.
“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”
“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”
“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?”
“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his
